


And Yet We Must Wander

by PaintedinallColors (orphan_account)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bard has selkie blood, Dragons are some seriously bad news, F/M, Half-fae Bilbo, M/M, Modern magic AU, Multi, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Vampire Thranduil, Werewolf Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/PaintedinallColors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins, like all of the half-Fae known as Hobbits, is severely allergic to dark magic, though it's just his luck that a veritable pack of cursed werewolves has moved into the apartment next door. And of course, it's just his luck that he is swept into events beyond his control by said pack-though he's perfectly comfortable in his home, thank you very much. Things spiral downwards faster than he ever could have imagined, and Bilbo learns that even though Magic is real, happy endings are rarer and infinitely more precious than mithril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, another fic anyone? Modern Magic AU, Werewolf Thorin and half-Fae Bilbo. This will be good, no?  
> I messed with timelines and canon a bit, basically shredding it and then picking parts I liked and slapping them into a totally different order.  
> Enjoy.
> 
> ~K

There was little light in the fortress, seemingly abandoned but for a single figure clad in a flowing grey cloak that had seen better days, for it was tattered around the edges though made of a once-fine material, and the shadows that moved too quickly or too slowly for the white flame blazing from his torch, and the fell creatures whose footfalls thudded heavy, badly disguised echoes of his own.

Moria pulsated with a dark, sinister energy, the glamor of a moldering castle set into the mountainside enough to drive away humans and some of the Magus, though Gandalf was never one to shy away from the darkness. He still remembered this place just after Azanulbizar, bodies of Fae, Were, and Spirit alike littering the carven stone steps like the snow that had begun to fall, ice reclaiming the Fire of Life that had been breathed into them.

New bodies replaced the old, bloodied and injured faces of those he had once called friends, new bodies of  ‘human’ strangers, though they possessed Magus blood, so diluted had the bloodlines become after the massacre. It was as if carnage was steeped into the very veins of this place, through the lattice of gold and silver that ran like rivers ever downwards, crimson blood more precious than any gem that could be found here flooding the tunnels for which they were spilt-and all for naught.

Darkness was growing, evil promising to rise stronger than ever; the dreams had plagued him and a select few for a month now, dreams of an oil-slick blackness and a sinuous voice offering damnation disguised as paradise. It troubled Gandalf deeply, especially since he had _felt_ this new death, the pain and anguish and suffering of each of these lives as they were extinguished, so connected was he to those with the Fire of Life. The losses had weakened him greatly, and yet he had still come, back straight as he hobbled deeper into the blackness, following the trail of bodies, scattered like macabre crumbs of bread to help the lost find their way.

Gandalf stopped before a great door ripped off its hinges by a force he could only begin to imagine, raising his staff and peering into the murky twilight. There were great scorch marks on the walls, and valleys gouged into the floors, yet no sign of the beast that made them-no sign of the Dragon. Tables with cruel iron straps filled the room, lined up neat like a standing army, and every single one of them held a corpse that was but a husk of its former self, blackened and shriveled and consumed.

Gandalf stepped inside, inspecting the nearest body, holding back the wave of revulsion that threatened to sweep him off his feet, the bile rising thick and bitter and burning in his throat. Grit and blood adorned the corpse’s shredded fingers, and Gandalf shuddered to think of what could do such a thing to a human body, though he had his suspicions.

And so he walked through the room, closing the eyes of the dead and murmuring the appropriate Rites until his voice grew hoarse and broken, and even then he continued on, for the dead must be honored, must be sent to the Halls of Mandos to rest, and to his Grey Lady to heal, and he must continue to do his duty.

He knew not how long he had spent Consecrating them, how long it was until he reached a table at the precise center, only that his exhaustion was immeasurable as he traced the Were’s-f or the broken body upon the table, still half-transformed, could only be Were-tangled brow, whispering the Chant for the Last Rites.

Only to be stopped, arrested by an agonized stare with eyes bluer than any other, more intense than a cerulean flame, brighter than the noonday sky. Eyes of Durin’s line.

“My son,” the wretched creature rasped from mangled lips and a torn throat, pressing something cold and hard and searing into Gandalf’s hand, blood sloshing onto the cold stone tile with every word. “Where is Thorin?”

His words were swallowed by a burst of bloodred flame and earth, a roar like the collapse of a continent, eyes like infernos set in a head crowned in crimson fire.

“Where is Thorin?” the dying Were repeated, his voice hysterical even as death bore down upon them both. “Where is Thorin!?”


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story begins in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for the delay. I was struggling for a bit with this and /just/ when I figured out what I was going to do, my laptop charger stopped working. Absolutely amazing, no?  
> So I'm just going to post this and do some severe writing, though I do have Faulty Wiring basically completely planned out, and some of 'and we watched the seas like sapphires turn to sand'. I also remembered that 'Elements of Design existed, so yeah that's gonna happen.  
> Basically updates will be quicker as my procrastination intensifies.   
> (As per usual, unbeta-ed)  
> Cheers,  
> ~K

Thorin Oakenshield, of the Line of Durin, second of his name and Chieftain of the Wolves of Erebor, King Under the Mountain, glared at the wizard standing before him, rage positively rolling off of him in waves.

“What,” he enunciated, his voice dangerously calm, “do you mean, I need another?”

“My dear boy,” the wizard began, his voice infuriatingly merry as he puffed on his pipe, thick smoke that irritated Thorin’s nostrils filling the room. He had a vague suspicion that the wizard had added the smallest hint of wolfsbane to it, and Thorin could barely check the growl that rose in his throat at the thought. “There are rules to this sort of thing, you know. Thirteen are doomed, but fourteen, fourteen is always fated to be a good number. And you will need it in this ridiculous venture.”

The last sentence was muttered into a smoke ring that rose and shifted, transforming into fourteen small silhouettes in a manner that disturbed Thorin immensely. Were, as a rule, did not enjoy a close proximity to the powers of other Magus-especially not those of Durin’s Blood. The curse had been cast within Thorin’s lifetime, painfully so, in fact; just when he was old enough to be able to remember the joy of Shifting at will, without command by the great, bloated moon that presided over their lives with a graceless coup d’état and an iron fist of regulation.

“And who,” Thorin was trying to tamp down the anger that shifted in his veins, simmering beneath his skin, “would that be? There are none willing to do this, not even my own kin. And certainly none of the other Magus.” Thorin still remembered the Fall, and the way that others had cast him and his kin out, naming them as tainted, impure, _lesser_ because of a curse they had not incurred, because this curse locked away their control, and control was what Magus valued above all else.

“I have found someone, worry not,” Tharkûn said merrily, his long grey beard (something that would surely have made his sister-son Kíli jealous) shifting as his lips pulled into a thoughtful smile that Thorin disliked greatly, for he had come to understand that what followed that smile was bound to displease him.

The key he held bit into his hand, cruel iron that would leave horrific burns on the hands of Fae, Daemon, and Revenants simply abrading skin with sharp edges of a familiar geometric design. Forcible, he relaxed his grip, though not enough to let it fall from his fingers.

 “Who is that someone, pray tell?” The wizard would give Thorin a migraine, this much he knew already, and the fact that Were could human remedies such as painkillers, which caused Thorin no small amount of irritation.

“He’s right upstairs, actually,” Tharkûn nodded to himself, blowing a smoke ring that Thorin had to grudgingly admit was perfect-by some form of magic, no doubt.

“Why is he not here, though?” Thorin gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose. These riddles, the endless talking and pondering and considering-it did not sit well with him; he wanted to act now, seize the chance while they were so close, the closest they had been in years to breaking the curse.

“Oh, he will be, soon enough.”

Thorin snarled in annoyance, rising in an abrupt motion, ignoring the silence that immediately fell over the room; the twelve loyal Were who had come at his call, some from Ered Luin, some from less savory places, some who had dwelled within the glory of Erebor at its height. His heart almost swelled at the sight-they numbered few, but they were warriors, determined and loyal, and would fight to the death if they had to. He could not ask for a finer Company with which to travel.

What he could ask for, though, was one more, the fourteenth that would fulfill the requirements of the Quest. And what he was asking for was right upstairs, and Thorin had never been one to wait, to let opportunities slip through his fingers when they were well within his grasp.

“I,” he began, levelling a glare at the wizard, who ignored him in favor of producing yet another intricate pattern in the smoke, a smile tugging slightly at the corner of his mouth (and not so slightly on Thorin’s short temper), “will return shortly. I am going upstairs.”

!~!~!

Bilbo Baggins, half-Fae and used to sitting quite comfortably in his loft apartment with its circular door and low-set windows, perfect size for a Hobbit though cramped at best for any larger beings, sneezed for the forty-eighth time in the past fifteen minutes.

He had been counting, and he was not in a good mood; a mix of anxiety and worry, tinged with fear, roiled in his gut. Sneezing meant allergies, which meant dark magic. Bilbo shuddered, fiddling with the charm he wore upon his neck, a crystal which concentrated his energy and allowed him to maintain the wards around his apartment-all of which appeared to be in order.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” he muttered to himself, standing up and smoothing out his suspenders (he’d meant to go out to work today, but the sneezing had taken him by such surprise that he’d called in sick, even lasting through Lobelia’s lecture). “You are safe, Bilbo Baggins, and you are not going be cowering in fear of your own shadow in your apartment, you ridiculous creature.”

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to plant some more agrimony, mullein, or wolfsbane. He’d heard howls last full moon, even though he lived in an apartment building closer to the center of the small town nestled in the valley than the wild forest that protected its borders. Those howls meant Ereborean wolves, and they were dangerous creatures, lacking control and finesse during their Shift. Though Bilbo supposed that it was through no fault of theirs-he knew of the curse they suffered, of course, though not all of its terms-but he was still afraid.

He had never liked wolves, they were too similar to wargs for him.

Just as he picked up his garden tools and a small pot filled with wolfsbane, both always on a small table near the sliding door that led to his balcony garden, there came a knock on the door, sharp, staccato beats betraying the knocker’s supreme irritation. It was the kind of knock Lobelia banged out on his door, her tongue working up a charm break his doors down and spit acid (sometimes literally) from between her lips.

“Lobelia, if that is you, I swear I’ll strengthen the wards tenfold and add a Mistward that’ll have you so confused it’ll send you tripping back down the stairs!” He’d seen her once this week already, and Bilbo viewed any further meetings as cruel and unusual punishment. “Now kindly stop that infernal racket and _go away_!”

“I will not be spoken to like that,” a voice growled from behind the door-and oh dear, that most certainly was not Lobelia, for the voice was deep and husky, grit and gravel rolled into a rumbling timbre.

“Who are you?” Bilbo tried to save face, for he was nothing if not polite, and quite achingly curious to find out who it was that stood behind his door. His nose itched fiercely, an explosive sneeze building up inside him-he’d be taking some Claritin at the soonest possible moment.

“That is not your concern at the moment. Open the door, if you please,” the last phrase was laced with mocking, the first haughty and prideful. Bilbo knew immediately that he would dislike the being on the other side of that door intensely.

“I’m not home, do go away,” he replied irritably, sneezing thunderously twice in succession, his eyes watering and his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton.

“Open the door.” The words were unmistakably a command, layered with a subtle almost-magic that rippled down Bilbo’s spine, straightening it while ducking his head slightly-a visceral response he scowled fiercely at, looking as feral as a plump, cherubic Hobbit possibly could.

“Bebother and confusticate this entire business,” he muttered, casting the door open and giving the being crowding the doorway a mutinous glare.

“And here I thought this was a region renowned for the manners of its residence,” came the wry comment in that rich, rumbling voice, somehow reminiscent of dark chocolate drizzled over pecans. Bilbo’s eyes widened as he took the Were male in, power clung to him despite his shabby raiment; his very bearing was regal, his eyes arrogating and the strong jawline and straight nose reminiscent of royalty of old. And he seemed to be in top physical condition, if a bit hirsute, as could be inferred from the dark hair peering curiously through his low-cut tunic (Bilbo honestly could not remember the last time he had ever seen another Magus in a tunic, and he much preferred the loose shirts that had come into fashion recently).

“W-well,” Bilbo stammered, looking away immediately as he fumbled for words, shame burning hot on the tips of his ears. “I wouldn’t take advice on etiquette from a Were that demanded a complete stranger let him in, and then used his bloody Were-mojo-thing to force said stranger to let him in!”

“Hm,” the Were hummed noncommittally, stepping into the apartment nevertheless, immediately making it seem ten times smaller.

“If you’re simply going to stand there, you might as well be of some use and help me with gardening. I rather think that there’s some dark magic about,” Bilbo told him, thrusting one of the pots on the counter at him, resolutely refusing to meet his glance.

“Master Halfling-,”

“Look here, I do not appreciate being called that, seeing as I am half of nothing,” he cut the other off hotly, storming over to the open balcony door.

“I-,”

“Come now, bring that out so I can plant it before I forget to,” Bilbo murmured, already wrist-deep in the rich loam of his small but beautiful garden. The soil was cool and slightly damp, he’d have to water it more tomorrow, perhaps cast a spell to help along the few earthworms he sense burrowing around in there, and to keep away the blight he’d spotted on the leaf of a rose. He could never allow that to ruin his garden, not after he had worked so hard to convert the balcony into a proper one-Bilbo was of a firm mind that plants did not belong in pots, instead, they needed the freedom of rich soil and golden sunlight.

A pair of boots caked in mud appeared in his line of vision, dangerously close to the tiny rowan plant he’d been nursing, and Bilbo spared a brief worry for the hardwood floors of his little apartment.

“Just place it in this hole,” he instructed, quickly creating a shallow one for the-oh dear.

The hands that deposited next to the not-quite-complete hole were already raw-red with a rash. Wolfsbane. And a Were.

“Oh dear,” Bilbo managed to squeak out, glancing up at the figure that now seemed far more ominous than it had not five minutes ago. His visitor, who had worsened his allergies tenfold, swam in his darkening vision, and he saw a hand reaching towards him as blackness eroded his eyesight.

The last thing he saw before he fainted was a blue stone, clear sapphire, set in a twined and carved ring of what could only be mithril.


End file.
